


this is home

by polkaprintpjs



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, bc cyc is an emotionally repressed dumbass, eventual cywhirlgate, slowburn applies to cywhirlgate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:13:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25292206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polkaprintpjs/pseuds/polkaprintpjs
Summary: “Hey, marshmallow. What’s with the long visor, eh?” He drops onto the floor in a clatter of metal, his gangly legs twisting out of the way. Tailgate takes the chance to lean against his hip, and Whirl takes the chance to wonder again at just how tiny the minibot is.
Relationships: Cyclonus/Tailgate (Transformers)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23





	this is home

Whirl squats, large frame lowering to put him a bit closer to Legs. The little guy doesn’t look up, just keeps staring out across the universe. Whirl eyes him a minute, then glances up, looks out to watch with him. It’s pretty, he’ll give him that; but not pretty enough for that much of concentration. All right, that’s enough patience out of him.

Whirl clicks his claws pointedly, then nudges Tailgate when that doesn’t get a reaction. The little guy kinda jumps a little, then stares up all sad with his bright visor.

“Hey, Whirlibird,” he mumbles, shoulders dropping even further.

Whirl shoves his tiny little sputter of a spark down- he’s a badass and what does he care, anyway? But he doesn’t straighten up, doesn’t leave. Instead, his vocaliser clicks on without his toggling it.

“Hey, marshmallow. What’s with the long visor, eh?” He drops onto the floor in a clatter of metal, his gangly legs twisting out of the way. Tailgate takes the chance to lean against his hip, and Whirl takes the chance to wonder again at just how tiny the minibot is.

Speaking of- the little guy sighs big enough he sways. Whirl waits, but just a sec, before he reaches and pokes him, real careful, right in the shoulder.

“He’s not coming back.”

Whirl pauses and his claw wavers, just a little. “What’re you talking about, Legs? Obviously he’s coming back, prob’ly on his way right now.”

TG doesn’t even look at him, just stands there, hugging himself.

“He’s not coming back,” he repeats, soft static. Whirl feels his optic go flat. Enough of this. He scrambles upright, bringing the little guy with him.

Tailgate ends up on his shoulders, clutching for balance. Whirl ignores his irritated grumbling and turns for the door; movie night’ll do the trick just fine.

* * *

Cyclonus ignores the shouting from outside his cell- crate, more like. He only has room enough to kneel with his back straight, and even then he must keep his helm slightly bowed to avoid scraping the low ceiling. His captors are organic- he doesn’t know the species, and they only spoke Standard once in his hearing.

He continues to vent steadily, counting the kliks idly as he ignores the too-tight manacles and twisting chains holding his frame in this position. There’s only so long they’ll keep him like this, after all; they wouldn’t have gone to such trouble and took such damage if the intent was to keep him locked away until his lines ran dry.

He’s no Whirl, but Cyclonus feels his lips curl in memory at the shrieking of the creatures as he’d fought back- not enough, though, by far.

The loud chatter takes on a new meaning when he recognises the groan of the cargo bay’s off ramp lowering. They must have docked, though he’s a bit put out he hadn’t felt the bump and grind that generally accompanies such maneuvers. He certainly notices his crate begin to shift, however; the whir of the machinery the organics are using hums loudly even through thick metal. He can feel the change in gravity as he is offloaded; the thrum of artificial gravity giving way to a planetside pull.

He is left for some time; more noise all around, but the crate is untouched. The interior gradually warms, likely the heat of at least one sun chasing the chill of the cargo bay. Long before the temperature grows intolerable, however, Cyclonus hears the door of the crate rattle.

He ruthlessly takes his spike of excitement and quashes it; he is still chained, and his lines have long been cramped and his joints stiff. A younger mech might have not had such an issue; no matter. He can wait. A shaft of light falls across his face as the doors are wrenched open, and he keeps his optics dimmed.

He is dragged out by a mecha- not Cybertronian, but still strangely familiar in frametype.

Cyclonus takes care not to offer overt resistance, not yet; his body is yet recovering from the lengthy cramped position. Another mecha steps forward and disconnects the chains between his ankles and running to his still manacled hands, then takes his other arm. They drag him forward, toward a long, low building a few thousand steps from the dock.

The four small suns warm his plating faster than the crate, which he notes in the same instant as his claws toggle the manacle’s clasp. The click is muted, and neither of his escorts seem to notice.

Cyclonus wastes no time in twisting from the grip of the mecha on his right, slams an elbow into the other’s throat. He gets as far as having one large hand curled around the mecha’s head, the other on their shoulder; he has no time to _wrench_ before electricity snarls up his backstrut and muddies his thoughts.

When his vision clears, Cyclonus is pinned to the ground by several frames, and the cuffs are reactivated behind his back. He feels stasis cuffs being clamped over the originals, and activated at a setting which makes his dentae ache. He is dragged to his feet, and marched onward.

Cyclonus counts seven more mecha- none Cybertronian- though from the uninterrupted, primarily organic bustle on the rest of the rest of the spaceport, this is not their home planet. In the building, there are rows on rows of narrow, floor to ceiling cells, most of whom are occupied, all by mecha. He sees a few Cybertronians as he is shoved into one of the cells, energy bars humming menacingly as he stumbles too close to the far wall- though far is a generous term; the cells are not much larger than his crate had been, other than height.

He spares a moment to think of Tailgate, of Whirl as he turns, slowly as to more thoroughly examine his surroundings. They’ll be expecting him back, by now. His friend will keep Tailgate safe, Cyclonus knows; Whirl is a true friend to them both, now.

There are more Cybertronians than he had originally noticed, mostly groundbound with a few fliers here and there. He makes optic contact with a sturdy flightframe a row over and a few cells down, who motions for silence. Cyclonus eyes them a moment, considering. He tips his helm to the side slightly and waits. They glance towards where the mecha that brought him in are clustered near the door, then back his way.

The mech beside Cyclonus- to his right- speaks. Their voice is low and words quick.

“They don’t like it when we talk. This is a business hub- some of us will go as labor, to mines and such, and some to fight. A few have been taken to labs, if you believe the guards.”

Cyclonus considers this.

“We are to be sold, then. Do you know which planet this is, and where it is, exactly?”

The mech checks for the guards.

“No idea. But given how many of them it took to haul you in- you’re bound for the fights, mech.”

Cyclonus does not consider this ideal. Still, it is far better than going to the labs and whatever those may entail. The mech seems disinclined to speak further, so Cyclonus settles himself on the floor, legs crossed and forearms resting on his knees; this is the only position he can recharge in while being reasonably sure he will not accidentally come into contact with the electric bars keeping him imprisoned.

**Author's Note:**

> hey come bug me on tumblr @megatronismegagone


End file.
